Stream of Consciousness #2

I do not know why I wanted to cry. No. that is not true. I wanted to cry because i asked about his life and he gave me truth. and he did not ask much about me, except occasionally. he talked about his culture and lack of religion. we talked of race and religion and spirituality. i felt like i could sit on his lap and dip down to kiss him while holding his face. but then in his eyes i see genuine feeling mixed with a set professionalism. he does not want me as a close friend. he does not want to dig into my soul and sleep in it, like the little prince on the asteroid. and i want to cry because i do, i do want to tread on his soul and know it. i want to know it. i want to know everyone but i am afraid to let them see me. do i lie? do i only want to know men as a prerequisite to intimacy? if i could only see people’s souls from the inside out, hanging by their side like a heart or a fanny pack or a police baton, i would know them. and then i could decide to love them. and i would not feel bad, like that creeping maggot into your stomach into your heart and wrapping around your veins and i do not know.

I have stopped. am better now. its okay.

Stream of consciousness #1

Stream of consciousness is a technique common to most writers–it’s also the scariest. Who wants to risk putting on paper what they really feel? I know it makes me uncomfortable, and like many others, I tend to mentally edit my thought process before I pen it. But I thought it might make me go to sleep, show some of the things I’ve been ruminating on, and help demonstrate SOC.

Forgive the lack of grammar. 


It is dark in this room where I sleep with the roommate who told me she thought period blood was gross. for some reason this makes me hurt and ashamed, as i am a woman and i am proud. where is the tent, where women go and commemorate this sacred ritual? in the trashcan, where it is wrapped up and flushed and forgotten. screw you all who ask their women and girls to cover up their blood. it is us! it is us and our body and why should we hide? if there is a god, ‘he’ made us this way to give life. yet somehow i am ashamed like i did something wrong, and if i did should i apologize? i say sorry too much. i say sorry for the blood and the sex without love and the love that is greedy and everything i do bad. or think i do bad. sometimes i do not see the sun, only concrete as i stare down, too ashamed to look up. climb the trees. i should do that. then i would see everything like i used to. i knew so much pain when i did, but all things seem stupid or meaningless when you are looking out from a tree you spent years climbing and knowing…

i want to cry, but i don’t know how. i want to feel badness so i can feel empty and then i can fill myself up with joy. where is joy. i guess it is in other people and i find it there occasionally. but mostly thats disappointment. or hurt. i don’t want to be hurt anymore. it’s like hands recoiling. when you are hurt too much, you don’t know. and it becomes easy to walk alone eat alone read read take in and never be with people never sit down with a best friend and giggle or hold hands with anyone.

this coughing is taking away my soul. here she moves, my roommate, and makes a noise in her sleep. i try not to wake her but what can i do with this soul sucking going on? she never speaks. only murmurs.